


The Girl

by Shayvaalski



Series: The Kids Are Alright [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of anyway), BDSM, Blood, Bondage, Dominance, F/F, Femslash February, Parentlock, Porn With Plot, Slash, Whipping, seb moran: minder of highly sensitive people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Siobhan Moran comes home from University still off-balance from a relationship gone up in flames; a discussion is had between Tommy and an old family friend; and a somewhat unorthodox solution is provided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl

**Author's Note:**

> It's femaslash with a healthy dose of (healthy) BDSM thrown in. There are plot points down in the endnote if that is Not Your Cup Of Tea, but I had uh. Sort of a lot of fun writing this. There is some reference to Siobhan's suicide attempt in here, as well to drawing blood in other ways, and descriptions of beating. 
> 
> Useful things to read first, in chronological order: [Dinner and a Favor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/371740/chapters/1299063), [Rise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/371740/chapters/1299221), and [Be Calm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/660369).

 

When Siobhan comes home for summer hols, dad is not waiting for her at the bus stop. Usually, when she’s been in Dublin, he picks her up and the three of them, her and Seb and Tommy, share out the bags and walk the kilometer to the house, up a long hill and then down the lane towards home. Siobhan likes this. She likes that it can be relied on, that for two terms every trip home has gone the same way, even if the fields near the road are stilled by frost or soaked with rain. Dad is infallible, constant, reassuring.

And he’s not there.

Her bags lie at Tommy’s feet, and his hand is firm against her shoulderblade, palm flat, fingers spread. Siobhan leans into it. She is not quite up to full strength yet, the world giving out at strange moments beneath her. Dad is nowhere in sight, and then someone says, “Siobhan.”

She pivots on the ball of one foot, ready to bolt or fight as the situation warrants, and ends facing a black Town Car, engine idling, with a tall woman leaning against it. She blinks. The woman is older, with dark brown hair just starting to turn iron-gray, impeccably dressed, a cigarette ( _expensive_ , thinks Siobhan, _gauloise: Paris_ ) dangling gracefully from one hand.

“Hello, darling,” she says, and smiles. Siobhan smiles back, steps forward to be kissed, lightly, on both cheeks. “Hello, Aunt.” Behind her, and over her head, Tommy nods a greeting, his fingertips still resting against Siobhan's back. 

The woman takes her chin in one smooth hand, turning it from side to side, and Siobhan, gazing evenly into gray eyes, lets her aunt take her measure with cool professionalism. She knows that she is thin, that the bones of her face and shoulders and hips show more clearly, that dad will say nothing but throw worried glances—but Siobhan also knows that it makes her look more like her mum, lean and spare and cruel.

“Slenderness suits you,” says Aunt Irene, and pats her cheek. “Your father tells me it has not been a good year, darling. Girl troubles?” 

Siobhan lifts one shoulder, lets it drop, feels the twitch of muscles in her neck any mention of the incident brings. Tommy’s hand presses hard against her back, and she fights it down, reining in the need to break or bruise. “Something like that.”

The look Irene gives her is not entirely unsympathetic. “Well, Siobhan dear, you are Jim’s daughter. It might have been expected.” One perfectly manicured fingernail taps against her lips, considering. “I have to say I thought we’d have a _touch_ more time, darling, but you’ve always been precocious.” She opens the car, gestures for them (mostly Siobhan, Tommy an incidental afterthought) to get in. Her tone is crisp now, used to giving orders. “Come along. We have things to discuss.”

 

 

*** 

 

Irene waits until Siobhan has gotten into the shower to corner Tommy. He’s in the chair nearest to the bathroom, tilted back against the wall with a textbook in his lap, eyes shut as he listens to the sounds the water makes. She watches him for several seconds, head a little on one side, before saying, “I take it you know precisely how long she’ll be in there.”

Blue eyes open, bland and empty; all four legs of the chair thump down onto the floor. “Since we’re at home, another fifteen minutes.” He closes the book noiselessly. “You want to know what happened.”

Tommy, thinks Irene with the faintest trace of surprise, is a good deal sharper than he looks. But then, she’d thought very little of Sebastian either, on their first meeting. She casts behind her for a chair (Siobhan’s, from the battered look of the wood) and folds herself gracefully into it. “If you’d be so kind.” A small pause while he looks at her out of those shallow eyes, and then Irene says, gentle, “Her—your parents asked me to help, Tommy.”

His mouth twists; he looks down at his square-boned hands. Then he takes a short breath and says, “Siobhan had a girlfriend. Amy. It didn’t work out.” Tommy looks like he’s arguing with himself, and then he looks directly at her and Irene can see something flare, flat and angry, and oh, isn’t that just _fascinating._ “She wasn’t herself. She was.” He makes a shoving-away motion with one hand. “Trying to push the Moriarty out of her. Be more ordinary. Less like her mum, she said, and I wasn’t enough when she started doing that.” His head turns towards the bathroom, automatic, like he can’t stop keeping watch. He sounds like he’s been running over this in his head for months.  “Or I was too much, maybe.”

Irene nods, thoughtful; Tommy doesn’t seem to see her. “Siobhan told me she loved her, that Amy called her Siobhán—and then she sent me away. And when I came back she was bleeding out.” He rubs at his own wrists, pained and tired, then reaches for his book as if that’s the end of it. 

“Tommy.”

He stills, halfway down.

“Tell me what happened with Amy, after you left. And before you came back.”

Tommy straightens up, and he seems for a moment much older than going on twenty. He doesn’t make any pretense of not knowing, just says, “Siobhan asked Amy to hurt her. Less asked than coaxed, maybe, and Amy gave in because you _know_ what Moriartys are like when they want something. Brought her pocketknife even, fuck her seven ways to Sunday.” The last few words come harsh and uninflected. “If they’d stuck to the dia damnaigh belt I _know_ she was thinking of maybe I wouldn’t have had to put her back together—” Tommy stops. Breathes. Runs his hand over his mouth. 

“Amy was. Íosa, aintín, if I’d known I would have called Mr. Moran or Seb a lot sooner—she held it together a while, but when the blood came...” He shrugs. “Less so. Told Siobhan that.” Another pause, and Irene can actually see him fighting down his rage. The gaelic itself would have told her the depths of it, but he’s letting her see it play out and that’s interesting. “That she was sick. Perverted. A manipulative bitch who inflicted her twisted fetish on other people.” It has the sound of quoting, and Tommy looks up at her again, blue-eyed, savage in his hurt. “You know how they get, when they lose control of a situation. She couldn’t cope. Lost touch, and then when she tried to get it back Amy just walked out.” 

He goes silent, and Irene is reaching out to touch his knee in sympathy when Tommy says, very soft, “She left her knife, though. By accident, and I’ll not tell Mr. Moran because of that, but it’s no secret Siobhan’s never been very stable and she might have bloody well known better.”

Irene presses the tips of her fingers against his kneecap; Tommy gives her a tight smile as the water turns off in the shower. “That’s the shape of it, Ms. Adler,” he says, and stands. “Though I’m not sure what you’ll do with it, now you know.”

He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Irene gets up and goes into the kitchen, where the two older men are sitting, Sebastian grim and Jim nearly homicidal, his madness hidden beneath the lightest of veils.

She knows _exactly_ what she is going to do. 

 

 

***

The Girl is something between fascinating and terrifying, and Irene has left them alone together. (Alone, that is, with Tommy; Siobhan’s aunt had made a motion towards removing him, but dad had taken her arm and had some sort of quiet word, and then there were just the three of them, Tommy with a book he is not quite reading.) Siobhan has no idea where her parents and Irene are. She didn’t think to ask. It doesn’t matter. 

“Sit.”  The Girl—Kitty’s—voice is as careful and cultivated as the rest of her, a public-school voice, shade of aunt’s even tones, and it is one that expects, completely, to be obeyed. Siobhan lifts her chin the barest bit, widens her stance, testing, and Kitty raises an eyebrow and taps her fingers against her hip, unmoved. 

“I wouldn’t,” she says, mildly. “Sit down, Siobhan.” She indicates with her eyes the foot of the bed and after another moment where no one moves, Siobhan drops down onto it. “Good girl.”

Kitty perches on the small table at the foot of the bed, crosses her knees delicately. She is a tall woman, slim, her ice-blond hair tucked up and out of the way, professional and cool, and so the sudden crack of leather against leather is shocking, bringing Siobhan’s head up and locking their eyes together. The older woman is running a strap through her hands, thoughtfully. Tommy watches both of them, but doesn’t stir.

“This is what’s going to happen.” Her tone is neutral, calm. “You will do as you’re told. You will call me mistress—no nicknames, no endearments—when you are allowed to speak. Any questions I ask, you will answer; if you cannot handle anything that happens, you _will_ use the safeword I give you. Are we clear?” 

Siobhan is trembling on the edge of something she has no name for. “Yes.” She knows without looking that Tommy is hearing, and remembering, what she later will not. 

“Good.” The Girl slides down from her perch, lets her wrap slip onto the floor, leaving her shoulders bare and white. She is delicate like an iron lattice is delicate, and she moves like a dancer, and Siobhan is so concerned with working out how to react that Kitty has a hand flat against her chest, pushing her down, before she can say or do anything. 

“Your safeword is _founder_ ,” and it’s not that she is strong, it’s that Siobhan wants this, wants the way the heel of the other woman’s hand presses into her sternum just above her breasts, and she slams back against the mattress with no resistance at all. The Girl is moving quickly, and Siobhan’s wrists are pressed together above her head, bound by soft leather cuffs and a rope running from her hands to the headboard, carefully secured. Her shirt is, somehow, elsewhere, and Siobhan can see her ribs rising and falling in what are not exactly gasps. 

“Turn over.” Body reacts before brain, and Siobhan manages to flip herself onto her stomach, resting on her elbows, forehead against bound wrists, bracing for—something. Something she knows is coming. A hand strokes down the line of her back, once, and then the whip falls and Siobhan cries out, mind wiped clean and blank and pure. Again, and it’s _better_ this time for the knowing, and a third time, and a fourth, until she is gasping and arcing up into the blows, arms straining back against the ropes. 

(She cannot distinguish the sound from the pain, the crack of leather from the heat it causes, the slight rush of wind around the whip as it falls and her body rises to meet it from the agony that goes right through her. Siobhan tries to set each in its own place, but every time she thinks that the pain and the sound and the _want_ that runs like flame from throat to groin and back are separate the lash comes down again and there is no difference, no difference at all, between them.)

And Kitty stops. A moment passes, and Siobhan can hear The Girl straightening her clothes, smoothing back her hair, but she doesn't look up. Bhan is laid bare, and her back is on _fire_ and she can feel the blue-black of bruises already and it's perfect, and she understands with a kind of ringing clarity things about her parents, about herself, that seconds ago were out of focus. 

The only way it could be better is if there were blood, and she is opening her mouth to tell Kitty that—to demand it, to coax her around, to use all the smooth persuasive Moriarty words and gestures mum has taught her—when The Girl's hand settles at the nape of her neck. She's not gentle about it; it is nothing at all like being touched and soothed by dad or Tommy. Siobhan stills, blood pounding in her ears and in the stripes along her back.

“I do not care what you want, Ms. Moran,” says Kitty, quietly, and the words are as firm and uncompromising as her fingers against Bhan's skin. “You will take what you are given.” A tap, two fingers on the bones of Siobhan neck. “On your knees.”

The Girl is moving unhurriedly, undoing the restraints from the base of the headboard and readjusting them higher, so that Siobhan has to sit up of her own volition or be dragged. Her eyes flick to the corner, to Tommy. He is alert, but unconcerned; when he sees her looking he gives the tiniest possible nod. Everything is fine and she is safe. Kitty tugs, hard, on the cuffs around her wrists. "Siobhan. Your attention stays on me." 

Every movement The Girl makes is decisive, unhurried; when she touches Siobhan, to adjust her bonds or tilt up her chin to get a look in her eyes, the weight and firmness of her hand remains the same. It’s reassuring, predictable, routine, and Siobhan relaxes under it even when Kitty’s fingers run over the marks on her back, pressing slightly, checking for heat, for bruising. If anything, the sharp ache relaxes her even more, spreading down over her ribs and belly. The Girl makes a pleased _Hm_ in the back of her throat and steps away. The way she rests one finger against her lips tells Siobhan she has spent some time, more than she’s mentioned, with Irene, as does the slight, thoughtful tilt of her head.

“Hold on to the ropes above your wrists,” she says, after a moment where they all breathe. “And keep hold. You are not to hurt yourself by _hanging_ from them.” Siobhan, warned, rearranges herself, knees underneath her, head bowed, fingers wrapped around the soft nylon. She does not brace, does not try to anticipate, and so the blow comes nearly as a surprise, clean and almost soft, like the strain of skin over bone, and the pain follows after. Kitty pauses, and gives it time to sink in, for Siobhan to draw half of a breath, and then hits her again, harder. 

Siobhan groans. It is a sound she has never heard herself make. Two more heartbeats, loud in her ears, and the next blow falls across her shoulders, and it takes everything she has not to let go and slump, let the restraints catch and hold her up. After every strike, just after the whip lands and just before the pain licks across her skin (sensual and intimate as lips and tongue tracing paths, sudden heat fading into shivering trails), there is a split second where Siobhan’s mind is perfectly and terrifyingly blank, and she wants _more_. 

When the next pause goes too long, she glances over at Kitty with a look that says _Please,_ but says nothing, doesn’t even open her mouth. Kitty nods, and murmurs,“Better.”

She stretches out her whip hand, letting the seconds tick by and watching Siobhan’s spine arch downwards so that her hips rise a little, the young woman making a noise like a question mark in the back of her throat. The Girl traces a finger down the curve of Bhan’s back, the dip of muscles just above the line of her tailored trousers, and then slides her hand over the crest of Siobhan’s hipbone. _“Much_ better.”

She pulls back, and lays the whip almost gently against the back of Siobhan’s neck, and then just above her hips, not hitting, just brushing the leather over pale skin, mouth curling up in half a smile. Tommy sets his book down, watching impassively, his whole attention focused on the way she reacts, the way her eyes look when The Girl lifts the whip away from her skin. He would rather it were him, keeping her safe and sane and grounded, but this is one thing Tommy cannot do, will never be able to do. Kitty ignores him, but Siobhan knows he is there, he can tell from the quick little looks she darts at him between strikes. 

The whip snaps down, laying line after line of heat across her back, starting from just below the nape of her neck—the pain there is thin and almost delicate, climbing in tendrils to wrap around her throat—and ending just above the curve of her ass. The last blow makes her start forward with the way it sends a jolt of desire straight to her groin, and Siobhan overbalances, saving herself from a wrenched shoulder only by the reflexive clench of her hands on the ropes. She can feel herself getting wet, and she rolls her hips, thoughtfully, testing what Kitty will allow her to get away with. This is better—this is far better—than Amy’s halting, hesitant tracings of the blade against her skin, and The Girl is not just calm, not just pleased, but actively _enjoying_ herself. Siobhan lets herself understand this, and then she lets herself moan. 

“ _Very_ good,” says Kitty, and lays the whip down next to Siobhan on the bed, bends over her so that her breasts are pressing into Siobhan’s back. Her silk shirt catches very slightly against the welts and bruises, and the younger woman draws in a breath that is half a gasp, presses upwards. The Girl makes a slight _tch_ , but doesn’t stop her, instead running cool hands over the hollow of Siobhan’s throat, down the centerline of her body (pausing to circle her nipples, nails light but with the promise of further violence behind them), over her belly and then stopping just short of her belt. Siobhan’s breath comes short as Kitty undoes the buckle, the button, the zipper, and works her trousers down around Siobhan’s knees. 

“Now,” says The Girl, and sits back. “I want you to get yourself off, Ms. Moran, and I want you to do it while I watch. And if you’re _very_ good at it, I’ll hit you again.” She presses her nails into one of the bruises, cutting off Siobhan’s protests. They sit in the back of her throat, unvoiced; she pants. Presses her forehead against the soft inside of her upper arm as Kitty leans up to free her left hand. 

“Can I—”

“Hush.” Fingers against her mouth; Siobhan wants to curl her tongue around them, taste The Girl’s skin. She doesn’t move fast enough, not quite, and Kitty laughs when she makes a small frustrated noise. “Come along, Ms. Moran. I gave you an order, I think.”

Siobhan rests there for a moment, one hand soft against her own thigh, a line of red vivid against her pale skin; her groin pulls at the sight of it. At the thought of the faint bruise that will ring the bones of her wrist for days—Siobhan knows how her body takes damage, how fast it heals. She lets the knowledge of it build and press against her, until she feels herself ebb and tighten. Siobhan swallows, breathing lightly; shifts backward so the binding on her other arm strains her tendons, making the sensation spike a little more. The Girl is watching with calm interest. Taking notes, thinks Siobhan, a little giddy, and allows her hand to drift up her thigh. She feels almost dreamlike, body heavy—it’s nearly a surprise when her fingers slide over her clit and she starts, breath hitching in. 

Kitty puts a firm hand at the base of her spine. Siobhan zeroes in on it, on the faint press of sharp nails, just enough to focus her down into intent and desire. She presses against herself, middle finger sliding over the hood to flick at the sensitive underside of her clit, which is hard in a way that distantly interests her, which she will have to file away for future study—The Girl digs her nails in and says, “Focus.”

Pain laces through her, delicate; Siobhan moans and begins to touch herself in earnest, lashes lowered—she hasn’t bothered with this in years, having mastered and abandoned the skill, and other things were more interesting—she feels herself twitch beneath her hand and her eyes snap open. New. This is new—

Tommy glances up as her body language shifts, and then back down. The Girl makes an approving noise. Siobhan can almost feel her regard, the slow movement of eyes over her body; she adds another variable, so that she’s circling her clit with middle and forefinger, increasing pressure then slacking off, carefully building the heat in her groin— 

“You’re thinking too much.” The Girl wraps Siobhan’s braid around her hand with one efficient motion and pulls, just short of yanking; Siobhan’s head is dragged back, neck strained so that her breath scrapes in her throat. A soft palm settles against her cheek. Threat. _Promise._ “I told you: if you’re _very_ good. Let yourself go.”

“I—” 

“It wasn’t a request.”

Siobhan can feel her own heat, her own wetness. There’s a moment where it overwhelms, and she tries to twist away, an unnerved anger flaring; Tommy sets down his book again. The Girl tugs her braid, unconcerned. It’s like she can feel each individual hair and the way they link into her scalp—it’s precise and soothing and it sluices over her like cool water and Siobhan lets it settle her back into a place that is not quite dreamlike. Kitty’s voice is barely a breath: “Good girl.” 

Siobhan leans into the pressure, using it to center herself—until she can stroke against her clit and labia again, slide two fingers knuckle deep into her body, set arousal into motion without predicting the arc it will take. The catch-release of The Girl’s silk shirt against her back keeps time; Siobhan’s head hangs between her shoulders as she curls and strains to reach a little further, thrust a little deeper, heel of her hand against her clit now, dragging on it as she fucks herself with three fingers, gasping. She is close, she is _so_ close, and Siobhan isn’t entirely sure how she got there, or how long she’s been writhing against her own hand. 

When she comes Kitty hits her, hard. Siobhan jerks forward, and it’s not quite pain, just a rush of what she can objectively label as endorphins; her muscles tense and then relax, and she feels the next time the strap comes down as impact and pleasure, and another rush that softens her further. The orgasm seems prolonged, the aftershocks coming in time with the carefully-aimed blows, until finally Siobhan is slack against the ropes. It’s only instinct that keeps her fingers wrapped around it, instead of hanging—instinct and The Girl’s admonition not to hurt herself.

“Very good.” The praise, in that careful, considered, professional voice, settles into Siobhan’s bones; she’s distantly interested to feel something deep in her gut start to unclench, and her chest loosens. “Sit up for me a little, Siobhan.”

She obeys almost automatically, and Kitty steadies her with a practiced brace of her own body while she undoes the cuff around Siobhan’s wrist. Her fingers linger over the bruising as if to catalog it, slide down over still-vivid scars. Siobhan is too lax, too white-noised and warm, to pull away from the touch; and The Girl’s hands are already moving to her back. Siobhan blinks. Lets her hands settle into her lap. She’s beginning to feel the air on her skin again, the shifts in currents from Kitty moving; the bruises on her back pull every time she moves, sending throb after throb of heat through her body. What, she wonders, will they feel like in three days time, and will Siobhan be able to press her back against the wall and feel the echo of the whip landing—

Siobhan sways a little, puts her hands against the mattress to steady herself. “Hm,” says Kitty, and then, “Thomas, stop looking worried and make yourself useful.” Her fingers are smoothing some sort of balm into Siobhan’s back, and then Tommy is sitting in front of her. How he got there is—inexplicable. His forehead tips against hers; the familiar skim of his palms over her upper arms grounds Siobhan, keeps her from drifting into static and hum. 

“You did very well.” The Girl’s voice is even and satisfied. “I’m quite pleased; I hope you found the experience to be a positive one, Siobhan.” Her hands are warm and careful, and Tommy is radiating calm strength. The balm smells of mint and broken pine needles. “I will of course stay as long as you deem necessary, this and any other time; intense sessions are often followed by slight drops without proper aftercare.” Two beats, then three; Siobhan thinks she is looking at Tommy. Then Kitty pats her shoulder, gently, and says, “When you’re ready, darling, you can come on back to us.” 

She settles down behind Siobhan, keeping that one point of contact with the practiced ease of someone who can keep it for hours if necessary. Some amount of time passes. Tommy breathes shallow and slow, eyes almost shut. Eventually, Siobhan licks her lips, blinks like she’s refocusing, and lifts one hand to grip his wrist. 

“Dia duit, saoiste.” He says it almost subvocal, his fingers closing around the strong delicate bones of her arms. “Welcome back.” 

Siobhan rolls her shoulders beneath his touch and Kitty’s, working sensation back into her neck and upper back. It flows in a slow wave down her body and up, lapping against her hairline and the bottoms of her feet. She’s aware of the thrum of Tommy’s concern (his eyes open wider than she’d ever seen them in the door of their room, his hands streaked with her blood; _you can’t do this to him again_ in dad’s soft voice) and of Kitty’s patient interest. 

She sits up, puts her hands to her hair to neaten it. The tension goes out of Tommy’s chest, and he reaches behind him to offer Siobhan her shirt. Kitty makes an amused sound as she takes it and slides it on, a little cautiously. 

“You’ll be sore for some time,” she says, standing. “But I rather think that’s something you’ll enjoy.” Siobhan swings her legs to the floor and begins to work her trousers back up over her hips without getting up. She’s watching Kitty from the corner of her eye. “If you agree, we’ll be seeing more of each other. Does that suit?”

“It does,” says Siobhan, and her voice feels unused, low and almost rough. She stands, barefooted; and she’s still shaky but the authority in her voice is automatic. The Girl’s mouth curls up, just a little. She offers a hand, which Siobhan takes. “You do excellent work,” says Siobhan, and there’s a tiny, almost unnoticeable pause, before she adds, “mistress.” 

Kitty laughs, and shakes her hand firmly. “It was a _pleasure_ working with you, Ms. Moran. Until next time.” And she gathers up her wrap and whip and cuffs, slides on her heels, and goes out without a backwards glance. Siobhan shifts her weight, resettling herself in her body; Tommy is just behind her, so close her back is warmed by him. She looks up, and then away. 

“I’m alright,” she says, quiet, and she can feel his soft exhale against her skin, doubtful. Siobhan shakes her head, a quick sidewise motion, and says again, “I’m _alright,_ Tommy.” He touches her waist, feather-light. 

“If you say so.”

“I do.” She runs her tongue over her teeth, leans back against him. The words taste like truth in her mouth, solid, almost square. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Plot for those who skipped the porn: Siobhan comes home from Uni somewhat damaged from the breakdown with Amy and her subsequent suicide attempt; Jim and Seb call in backup in the form of Aunt Irene, who drags most of the story out of Tommy and comes to the conclusion that sexuality for Siobhan is a complicated beast indeed, and needs careful managing. 
> 
> (The story is, for those interested, that Siobhan coaxed Amy into hurting her, fairly obviously, with knives; it didn't go very well, Amy flung some very well-thought-out insults, Siobhan lost her cool, and Amy left.)
> 
> Enter The Girl, Irene's colleague/protege/fellow dominatrix, whose speciality is more or less exactly what Siobhan needs to keep her grounded. She's her mother's daughter, after all; sex and violence are going to go hand in hand. 
> 
> (Tommy sits in on the session, because really, what else is he going to do.)
> 
> \--
> 
> Much, much love to treesong for being a sounding board for the BDSM elements, and to Blue for being a sounding board for EVERYTHING and making gentle gleeful sounds when I read the whole thing out loud to him while editing; and Bard because they've been so very restrained about the long delay from when I started this to when I finished. 
> 
> (And Alix. Because man alive I am pleased.)


End file.
